


5 Times Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Never Met

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, M/M, it has a happy ending i promise, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... and the one time they did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 Times Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Never Met

I.

Even though John did neither believe in God nor in some sort of afterlife, this was a bit disappointing. He expected maybe a bright little light at the end of the tunnel, a short summary of his life flashing before his eyes at the very least. 

Not that the short film would be terribly interesting or special. 

Quite frankly, nothing to be very content with. Growing up in the outskirts of London – lower middle class family. The premature death of his mother drove his father to drink. Older sister. Good at school, not uniquely talented, but hard-working and ambitious. Becoming a doctor, though his father did not live long enough to see that. His premature death drove Harry to drink. Enrolling in the army, escaping his empty life, to Afghanistan. 

Where his journey would most likely end at the age of thirty-five, within the next few minutes. The part of his brain that was solely a doctor observed his injuries with surprising detachment. Shot in the chest, pierced aorta. Bleeding to death, rapidly. Had he moved a little quicker, hadn't he hesitated a fraction of a second to long, the shot might have gone through his shoulder. Scarred and invalided, almost certainly, but alive. 

Well. Too late to wonder now. Breathing was getting more difficult. His mind was suffused with pain, which was overshadowed by a rising panic when dark spots began to dance in front of his eyes. Oh god, this was not how he imagined dying at all. Pain, confusion, sand and blood and sweat stinging in his eyes. Alone. Shockingly, heart-wrenchingly, overwhelmingly alone, in the desert, surrounded by the dead, uncaring, unknowing bodies of his already-fallen comrades. Soon he would be just one of the nameless soldiers, killed in action. Just another casualty, just another name on a list somewhere. 

“Oh, please”, he thought hazily, “Please, God, let me li---” 

Darkness.

 

II.

When he put an ad in the paper, saying he was looking for a flatmate, Sherlock actually did not think he would get a reply. Sure, the location was wonderful, the flat lovely as well as surprisingly low-priced. But he also listed some of his numerous failings – without giving away too much detail, of course. But a potential flatmate should maybe be warned about the possibility of being woken at four am by the sound of a Bach Violin Concerto.   
Or finding more or less dangerous experiments in the kitchen.   
Or having to deal with one of his black moods. 

So when James M. said that we would like to get a tour, he did not hesitate to refuse. How often did one get the opportunity to finally be able to pay the rent without begging (not his word of choice) Mycroft to pay for yet another month?   
James “Please Call Me Jim” Moriarty seemed to be a nice enough person. Dull, ordinary. Also gay. Potential problem? No, judging by the turn-ups of his jeans not looking for a relationship. Besides, Sherlock prides himself on being able to deflect even very persistent pursuers. 

Has an office job, computer-related. Ah, an IT guy. Harmless, friendly, social, normal. 

Also remotely unfazed by the mess Sherlock already made of the flat. Probably more or less accepting of his various quirks and peculiarities. Not nosy, nor too annoying. A room mate as close to perfect as Sherlock could hope to find.

Until the day Sherlock wakes up with a gun pressed to his forehead and he realises, that that really, really was not the case.

 

III. 

Seeing John Watson again was really a surprise, thought Mike Stamford, former colleague and friend of the ex-army doctor. He nearly did not recognize him again, with the limp, and the face devoid of any expression, and the powerless attitude. Granted, John had never been some sort of party animal or attention seeker. But there had been a quiet determinedness, a hidden strength about the short, sandy-haired man, which was now gone without leaving so much as a trace of it behind.   
Funny, how much an unnaturally ramrod-straight posture and a little extinguished light in the eyes of a man could change one's appearance, make you so invisible to the careless observer. 

“Come one, who'd want me for a flatmate?” 

The same words, coming from two of the most different people he'd ever met in his life. Should he take John to see Sherlock? Maybe they could find an arrangement, if John was still as good-natured as he used to be. But then again – after all those horrible things that must have happened in Afghanistan, John surely preferred a calmer lifestyle now. And calm was really not an adjective associated with Sherlock Holmes. 

Moody, a loner, distressingly still when he wanted to be, yes, but never calm. The man was like a stormy sea, a hurricane, seemingly unmoving at its centre, but actually roaring, flashing, brimming with destructive energy. Not an ideal friend (not that Sherlock had those) for an invalided soldier. 

“Sorry, mate, can't think of someone right now. I'll get back to you when an opportunity should present itself”.

 

IV.

“Another one?” 

DI Lestrade ducked under the yellow tape that marked the crime scene. “Yeah, looks like it. Most likely just a junky, doesn't look like murder or anything. Either suicide or accidental OD”. Sally Donovan pointed into the darkened alley. “Just around the corner”. 

Lestrade sighed, dutifully following her still extended arm. Maybe if he could wrap this one up quickly, he could make it home for dinner. God knows he has neglected his wife for quite some time now. He turned up his coat collar against the steady cold drizzle that has been going on for the better part of the day. Now, with night coming in, the air got even chillier. Clichéd weather for a crime scene then, Lestrade thought gloomily. Hoo-rah.

The young man lay slumped against the rough brick wall, dark curls falling into his face, nearly obscuring the half-open eyes, staring unseeingly into the air. His skin was ashen, looking sickly translucent, and even though he wore a large dark coat, Lestrade could see that he was way to thin for his size. God, the kid was probably just around twenty, by the looks of it. He had no identification on him. Just a pack of cigarettes in his coat pockets, and, weirdly, a magnifying glass. 

His sleeve was still rolled up, and sprinkled around the fresh little wound, the Inspector could make out many scars. Small little white dots, even lighter than the pale skin, like tiny stars cluttering the night sky. Lestrade sighed heavily. 

“Get him out of here”.

 

V.

London was where he grew up. Where he went to school, had family (well, only Harry now, to be honest). London was his _home_. 

But still. It seemed like a bad idea to go back there. Because, even stronger than the urge to see the familiar shapes of the city again, there was a fear, a fear so deep he could barely stand it. An irrational fear, but fright was rarely logical. What John feared most, was the change. 

He himself had changed so much in the few years he was in Afghanistan. Growing colder and harsher without meaning to. Becoming raw. And at the same time, more vulnerable. How could he face day-to-day life again, knowing that a few thousand miles away, men, good men, honest men, men he liked and did not like, women too, _humans_ , were dying, sacrificing themselves for their fatherland, where their only recognition consisted of the occasional newspaper article. The waste of human life made every medical instinct in him howl in agony, thinking of the smell of burned flesh, the sight of stripped-away skin, the sickening crunch of breaking bones.

If London changed, John would be swept away. The one thing that was always there, suddenly different? Unimaginable. He would be gone, there would be nothing left of him. No anchor, no link left to real life, the life he led now, nothing to ground him in reality.

He found a lovely little flat in Cardiff.

 

\+ I.

John was intrigued. He did not expect to find a potential flat that fast – after all, he was an invalided soldier, complete with a bad leg, a shot shoulder, and terrifying nightmares that let him wake up screaming and gasping for air. But if the mysterious man Mike mentioned said of himself he would most likely not find a room mate, well, then he should just accept John's little shortcomings, John thought a bit defensively. 

According to Mike, this person worked with the police. A consulting detective, though John had never heard of that profession before. Must be one of those fancy new jobs invented after he left for the middle east. 

The man he met down in the lab at St. Bart's was nothing like John expected. He was tall, dark-haired and fair-skinned, with eyes that barely lingered for longer than a second on him. And then he began to talk in a rich deep voice, and what he told John was astonishing. Like some sort of magic trick. If John had less self-control, he might have gaped at the man, and then proceed to ask for an autograph. Difficulties of sharing a flat forgotten, John's only thought was I need to get to know that man. Luckily, he seemed to have passed some invisible test, because shortly before the man strode out of the room he turned back and said with a wink:

“The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street”

 

The End.


End file.
